“Hope you don’t snore as loud as Noel,” Amos Wilson quipped with a grin. He was a tall, thin young man from Illinois, a big talker who bragged about how many Rebels he would kill, but Noel felt that the talk was to cover up something.
“This is Tate Armstrong, Bing,” Noel said, at the same time indicating a spot where his brother could pile his load. “He thinks he’s going to be a doctor. Might as well, because he can’t hit the side of a barn with his musket.”
Armstrong nodded. “I’m too good a man to waste in the infantry.” At twenty-two, he was short and trim and a very fast runner. He had spent much time trying to get transferred to the medical branch of the army, with no success. “Glad to see you, Bing. Hope you can shoot as good as Noel. Make up for how sorry I am.”
Bing dropped his uniform and gear and turned to face the squad. “I guess I can do anything my brother can do,” he said, a sour expression on his wide mouth. He was a rather formidable figure, six feet tall and powerful. His black hair was wavy and hung over his brow.
Manny Zale studied the new arrival, then asked, “You another psalm singer like your brother? If you are, I’m moving to another squad.”
“Not hardly,” Bing said quickly, sizing Zale up as one of his own kind. “I got no time for such stuff.”
Noel said quickly, “This is Fritz Horst; that’s Emmett Grant; and this is Caleb Church.” Horst nodded briefly. He was German and still spoke with a strong accent. He’d joined the army because he’d been unable to find work. He was a good soldier, having served in the German army and grown accustomed to taking orders. Grant was a good-looking man of twenty-one, who was a good hand at card playing, so much so that he kept the others in the squad broke. He was terrified at the very thought of battle, though, and tried hard to cover his fear.
Caleb Church was the oldest man in the regiment. Though he was sixty, he was one of those men who had not lost any physical strength with age. He was a farmer from Ohio, and now he said, “Glad to see you, young feller. I wuz in the Mexican War, and it was the best time of my life. You come at a good time, I tell you, ‘cause we’re going to have some fun with those Rebels, by gum!”
Bing gave the old man a grin, for there was something comical about Church—or perhaps it was the reckless, happy-go-lucky spirit in Church that he liked. “All right, Grandpa. Maybe you’re right.” Then he looked at Noel, saying, “Big brother, any way I can get some grub?”
“Sure, Bing,” Noel said instantly. “Let’s go down to the mess hall and we’ll see what we can promote.”
As they left the tent and walked toward the mess hall, Bing said, “Noel, don’t give me no sermons, you hear? This ain’t my choice, but I’m stuck with it for three months. All I want to do is keep from getting shot, so don’t try to make a soldier out of me, get it?”
“All right.” Noel said no more, but he knew that sooner or later his brother would bring trouble to him. Bing always did.
At dawn the first platoon of A Company was on the way to Manassas Junction. The Washington Blues were almost lost in the host of other units headed for that small town. The first day’s march allowed the men to get adjusted, and the camping out had the flavor of a boys’ camp, with the men singing and playing tricks on one another. But the next two days wore them down so that there was little horseplay, and many of them had shed their heavy coats, tossing them in the supply wagons.
Watching them on the morning of July 18, Gideon said to Hiram Frost, “They look tired, Captain, but you’ve done a good job.”
“Well, I’ve got some good lieutenants.” Frost lifted his eyes to the distance. “Think we’ll lock horns with the Rebs at Centreville, Major?”
“General McDowell thinks so,” Gideon said. “He doesn’t have any grandiose ideas about taking Richmond. All he wants to do is take Manassas Junction. That’s a critical spot. The Manassas Gap Railroad runs through there straight to the Shenandoah Valley. As long as the Confederates hold that, they can move their troops by train to meet any attack we make. As a matter of fact, that’s what I’m worried about.”
“I understand General Patterson is supposed to hold the Rebel force being led by Joe Johnston in the Shenandoah. If he does, we shouldn’t have any trouble whipping Beauregard at Manassas,” Frost said. He had a keen grasp of military strategy and added, “We’ve got five divisions, which means we outnumber them greatly.”
Gideon looked troubled. “If we go straight in, that’s right. But if General McDowell hesitates, Joe Johnston will have time to move his army from the Shenandoah to Manassas. Then we’ll be in real trouble, Hiram! I wish we had a general with more push.” Then he shook his head and came up with a smile. “I’ll keep my eyes open for your company. Best in the regiment, I do think!”
But there was no battle at Centreville, for the Confederates pulled back. Instead of plunging ahead against the thin ranks that had drawn up behind a small stream called Bull Run, McDowell waited. And this delay, as Gideon had predicted, gave General Joe Johnston time to move his men by train from the Shenandoah to reinforce General Beauregard—it was the first use of railroads to move masses of men to battle, and it changed the course of the battle of Bull Run.
When A Company marched across Bull Run into battle on July 21, 1861, they met not a skeleton crew, but thick ranks of tough Confederates reinforced by the likes of Thomas Jackson and his Virginians, who arrived in time to throw a blistering sheet of fire into the very face of Noel Kojak and his platoon as they advanced into their first battle.
Captain Taylor Dewitt drew a rough sketch on a sheet of paper of Manassas Junction and the small stream called Bull Run. He’d just come from a staff meeting where General Beauregard had delivered a fiery speech and given his plan of action. “Here’s what we’ve got,” Taylor said, pointing at the map with his pencil.
The officers were all tired, exhausted by the rough train ride from Shenandoah to Manassas. Captain Dewitt scratched his itchy three-day growth of whiskers, noting that his three lieutenants—Dent Rocklin, Bushrod Aimes, and Tug Ramsey—looked as rough as he did. What they needed was a good rest, but he knew there was none coming. He had gotten off the train long enough to meet with General Beauregard’s staff, and now he wanted his lieutenants to know what was likely to happen in the morning.
“Our army is here along Bull Run. The Yankees are on the other side. This stream doesn’t look deep, but it can only be crossed at a few fords or over the Stone Bridge. We’ve got those places heavily enforced. We’re here on our right flank, because that’s where General Beauregard thinks the attack will come. But what we’re going to do is attack before the Yankees are ready. We can hit them hard and roll them up, then drive them before us all the way to Washington.”
Dent stared at the map, then asked, “What if they go around our flanks?”
“We’ll be in trouble, Lieutenant,” Taylor said roughly, then added, “That’s why we must attack. We’re still outnumbered, even with Johnston’s army from the Shenandoah to reinforce us. I think we’ll go at that about dawn, so have your men ready. The well will run dry soon enough, so fill every canteen with water. Take fifty additional rounds of ammunition.” It was already dusk as he added, “When we attack, be sure there are no stragglers. I’ll be in front, but you two follow the company. Be sure your sergeants keep an eye out for men holding back.”
Bushrod looked at Dewitt quizzically. “What’ll we do, Captain, shoot ‘em?”
“Make them think you’re going to,” Taylor snapped. The four officers lingered over the map, trying to convince themselves that the next day would be easy, but with no success.
Farther down the line, Waco Smith’s squad was gathered around a fire where Corporal Ralph Purtle was roasting a couple of plump chickens on his bayonet. Smith sat back watching the juices drip from the birds, saying in a satisfied tone, “Purtle, if you could shoot as good as you can rustle up grub, we’d win this heah war tomorrow.” Smith was a lean Texan who stood just under six feet. He had light green eyes
and aquiline features and had been a buffalo hunter, a cowboy, and a Texas Ranger. He ran his squad with an iron hand, still carried a .44 in a holster tied to his thigh, and could pull and shoot the weapon in one unbelievably fast movement.
Corporal Ralph Purtle was a pudgy man of twenty-five who spent most of his waking hours either eating or thinking about eating. Waco had already decided that when the regiment outran its supply lines, Purtle was the man to do the foraging. “Hurry up with that chicken. We’ve got a busy day tomorrow,” Waco said.
“You really think the Yankees will come at us, Sarge?” The speaker was the youngest of Waco’s squad, Leo Deforest. Leo was only sixteen and had had to find a drunken recruiter in order to get accepted. He had a boyish freckled face and was eager for the fight to begin.
Private Con Ellis sat across the fire from Leo. He lifted his head, revealing battered features, the marks of his years in the ring. His eyes were hazel, almost yellow, and hard drinking had put blue veins in his nose and cheeks. “Don’t be asking for that in your prayers, sonny,” Con rumbled. “Army life is fine—until somebody starts shootin’ at you.” That summed up Ellis’s philosophy. He was one of those men who was happy to let someone make his decisions for him in exchange for a few dollars a month. He had a cruel streak in him and leaned over to pick up his bayonet. He gave Homer Willis a hard rap on the soles of his boots and laughed roughly as the boy let out a yelp and drew his feet back. “That hurt, Homer? Wait till the Bluebellies put a minié ball in your guts!”
Willis bit his lip but said nothing. He was seventeen and even more immature than Deforest. He had enlisted because a girl had egged him into it, and now every night he cried into his pillow, longing to be anywhere but in this army that was marching straight into destruction.
Waco said, “Cut it out, Ellis, or I’ll bat your ears down.”
“Just kidding, Sarge,” Ellis said. He was a rough man in a fight, but he knew that Waco was too tough a man to bluff. “What’s goin’ on out there?” he asked, waving toward the small stream that lay ahead of them.
“Yankees are coming, Con.” Ira Sampson was a teacher of Latin and was never called anything but Professor by the men. He had fair hair and blue eyes and wore a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles. “They’ll be coming for breakfast early in the morning.” A wry smile came to his thin lips, and looking across the stream to where faint campfires of the Federals made flickering lights in the darkness, he said softly, “Omni a mutantur, nos et muta murinillis.”
The strange sounds and cadence of Sampson’s words caught at Lowell Rocklin, who sat back from the small fire. “What the blazes does that mean, Professor?”
“All things are changing, and we are changing with them.”
“Sounds pretty confusin’ to me,” Buck Sergeant Holt Mattson remarked. A lean, clear-eyed man from Georgia, Mattson was Waco’s right-hand man.
Clay Rocklin had been looking at the fires as they burned like small golden ingots across Bull Run. Now he turned his head swiftly toward the slight form of Sampson. “That’s about right,” he said softly, and his comment brought the attention of most of the squad. Clay had been the most silent member of the small group, speaking pleasantly enough but not joining in the frolic in which some of the men had engaged. He had been a rock, however, to Waco Smith, who longed to see him made a corporal. Waco had seen that the older Rocklin had whatever quality it is that commands other men. But Clay Rocklin had shown no inclination to move up, and Waco knew better than to push it.
A terrifyingly deep bass voice shattered the silence. “Well, what’s that mean? I don’t get it!”
Clay turned to see Jock Longley staring at him. Longley was the smallest man of the squad. He was twenty-six and had been a jockey. Now he complained constantly about having to walk, lamenting the fact that he had not joined the cavalry. “Just what it says, Jock,” Clay murmured. He made a strong shape in the darkness, the high planes of his cheekbones and his deep-set eyes giving him a masklike appearance. The men around him, and men in other companies, had discussed him endlessly. They all knew he’d been a deserter or something equally rank in the Mexican War, that he was opposed to this present conflict, and that he was the owner of a huge plantation—but nothing seemed to fit. He was by far the most able man in the squad; he could outmarch the best of them, and he was a deadly shot with his musket.
Now Clay saw that they were all watching him, and he said, “Well, things are changing, aren’t they, Jock? Our world’s not the same.”
“Yes, but it will be when we put the run on the Bluebellies, Clay.” Bob Yancy sat close to Clay, for he knew the man and trusted his wisdom.
“That may not be as easy as you think, Bob,” Waco interjected. “Some pretty tough boys on the other side of that creek.”
“Aw, one Confederate can whip five Yankees anytime, Sarge!” Ralph Purtle said. He pushed his knife into one of the roasting birds, grinned, and said, “Suppertime!” He stripped the chickens expertly, giving each man a portion, then sat back and began to munch one of the drumsticks. “Ain’t that right, Sarge?” he finally asked Waco. “What I said about us and the Bluebellies?”
“Ralph,” Waco said as he chewed a chunk of white breast, “if we meet up with a bunch of Phil Kearney’s division tomorrow, you’ll run backwards so fast you’ll lose some of that hog fat under your belt.”
Lowell said quietly, “I’ve been wondering about that, Sarge. Will I run when the bullets start flying?”
Waco Smith said, “No man knows that until he’s seen the elephant, Lowell. We can train you to drill, but when your friends start dropping around you, nobody knows if you’ll keep going or not. Guess we’ll find out tomorrow.”
Waco’s words brought a silence around the fire, and the men sat chewing on their chicken, all of them thinking of the next day. Finally Clay got to his feet, saying, “Guess I’ll go listen to the chaplain.”
His words stirred the group oddly. Some of the men got up at once, but Con Ellis jeered, “Got to have some religion to git you through the night, Rocklin? Not me. I’ll take a good jolt of this whiskey!”
Clay made no answer, but when he arrived at the open spot where a large group of men had gathered, he was pleased to see that at least half of the squad was with him. Lowell said, “Look, there’s Rev. Irons, Pa.”
Large fires had been built to give light, and Jeremiah Irons had already gotten up on a small rise. He saw Clay and Lowell, nodded cheerfully, and said, “Well, I thought I could do as I pleased when I left home. But I see some of my congregation is here—so I’ll have to behave myself.” The men laughed, and one of them called out, “Don’t worry, Preacher, we won’t tell on you!”
Irons stood there smiling as the men settled down. He had volunteered for the army after a long struggle with his soul, but from his first day as chaplain of the Richmond Grays, it was obvious that he was going to be a success with the men.
He was not a hellfire-and-damnation preacher but preferred to stress the grace of God and the love of Jesus for all men. He was physically a match for most of the men, and on the long marches he often dismounted and let one of the men ride while he walked.
Now he began to speak. “We had a barber in our town who got saved last year, a man named Claude Foote. He was anxious to share his faith with people, to see someone get converted—but he found it hard to be a witness. Being a barber, he was a great talker, but he just couldn’t find any way to begin telling men about God’s love. Well, he came to me one day and asked me if I could help him get started. I suggested that he memorize a verse of scripture and that he simply repeat it to people.”
The men were quiet, listening carefully, and Clay smiled. He knew Irons so well! The preacher was a good fisherman and knew how to lure his hearers in close so he could set the hook.
“Well, sir, Claude thought that would work. He went home that night, searched his Bible, and found a verse he thought would be effective. The next morning the first man to get into his chair was Les Bu
rns, and a more nervous man never lived! He would jump at the sight of his own shadow. Claude put the towel around Les’s neck and lathered him up good. He took his razor, stropped it until it was keen enough to cut a feather, then laid the blade right on Les’s neck and said, “Les Burns—’Prepare to meet thy God’!”
The men roared, and Irons stood there smiling until they grew quiet. “Well, my verse for you men is the same as the one Claude gave to Les Burns. It’s found in Amos, the fourth chapter, the twelfth verse: ‘Prepare to meet thy God, O Israel.’”
Irons paused, letting the silence deepen. The sounds of men and horses stirring were on the night air, but within the grove the men felt the draw of the chaplain and strained to hear.
“Tomorrow, some of us may be in the presence of the Almighty,” Irons said. “And then what will be important to you, should you be one of those who leave this earth to stand before God? Your money? What would you buy with it at God’s bar of judgment throne? No, only one thing will have any importance at that awful time: Are you prepared to meet your God? And there is only one way to be prepared, men. Jesus said, ‘I am the way,’ and He is the only way. His blood is all that God can see. You may say, ‘I was a Baptist,’ but God will say, ‘Where is the blood?’ You may say, ‘I led a good life!’ But God will say, ‘When I see the blood, I will pass over you and not destroy you!’”
For nearly an hour Jeremiah Irons spoke of Jesus Christ, surrounded by listening men who stood in the flickering firelight. He pointed the way to Jesus as the only hope, and when he came to an end, he said, “I feel that some of you fellows would like to prepare to meet God. But let me warn you that I am not selling fire insurance! You cannot come to God just to escape the dangers of battle, the death that may well be yours tomorrow. You must come with your life in your hands, and you must hold that life up to God, saying, ‘God, I have sinned, but my hope is in the blood of Jesus. I give You my life, not just for a day—but forever!’ If you’re ready to follow Jesus, come and let me pray for you.”
Three Books in One: A Covenant of Love, Gate of His Enemies, and Where Honor Dwells Page 54